I'm Sorry
by ludwigsgirl97
Summary: No one is suspicious when Sherlock pulls away. None of them, not even big brother, suspect the scars on his arms. Warnign:underage self harm/cutting.


No one questioned when Sherlock started spending more and more time in his room. His father hoped that he was doing his homework, and his mother had decided that it was "just a phase" like all of the other teenage boys. Mycroft hadn't gone through it, but then again, Mycroft seemed to have gone from a boy to a man without a day of in between time. He was special-amazing. And now he was gone, away at Oxford, becoming the affluent individual everyone had always known he'd be. And sherlock was left without anyone. No voice but the ones at school who called him a freak, and the one in his head that copied the sentiment without stopping, keeping him up at night.

When he started only wearing long sleeves, his mother was happy, and his father approving. They thought he had just decided to give in to propriety and wear the whit button up shirt of a proper young man. His increasing silence was a blessing-he'd always talked far too much about nothing and his parents were happy to have a few moments of peace. Neither of them, genius mother, or commoner father, could tell what was really going on.

Fooling Mycroft, had a particular thrill. Knowing that he had scars under thin white cotton, some red and angry, and some faded white, some still scabbed, easily picked off when he didn't feel like creating new cuts. From his collar bones to his wrists, they had built up over nearly a year. They shut the voice up, made it slow down enough that he could think properly, and sleep. God, he had missed sleep. Before he left, Mycroft on the other side of their shared bedroom would calm him down. Just his presence, solid and strong, would make the voice go away. The malicious monster inside his mind seemed to be afraid, only coming out in the dark, when his big brother wasn't there to protect him. So now, they were once again only a few feet apart, and Sherlock frowned when his skin was still itching.

He went into the bathroom, pulling out the small box he kept his razor in-the straight edge that he'd been given by his father when his first few chin hairs had grown in- and angrily dragged it across his wrist. It was supposed to be over, at least for a little while. The ache was supposed to go away. With the sound of the shower running, he sat naked in the water, taking the blood away and leaving him cutting deeper and deeper. He sobbed, cursing under his breath, wondering why the voice wouldn't shut up.

When he figured enough time had passed by that he couldn't reasonably still be showering, he turned the water off, and got out, using the same black towel that he'd always used, because the blood didn't show. His head was light, and the buzzing at least drowned out the hateful talking. He put on his pajamas, long sleeved of course, and stepped out, trying not to stumble.

Mycroft was sitting on the bed opposite to his, reading some stuffy book that would make him minutely more pretentious for having had it in his mind, not really paying attention. Sherlock crawled under his own sheets, and drifted off to sleep.

When he woke, the voices were back, and Mycroft was still asleep.

It had been three years, and he would be expected to go to Uni soon. He'd already been accepted into Cambridge, and they'd agreed that, for his brilliance in science, they wouldn't make him have a dorm mate. That was good, because he wouldn't have to hide anything.

Mycroft came home that Summer as always, and he smiled, pulling his brother into a politely short hug. He did the same to their parents, and began filling them in about his semester, and how he had been accepted into graduate school for something or other. Sherlock wasn't really listening as he sat in the living room and absently scratched at the half-scars on his upper wrist under his sleeve. When Mother said that she had to go make dinner, and effectively dismissed them, Sherlock was quick to head towards his room, until he heard his father talking.

"I'm worried about him, Myc. He doesn't talk to anyone anymore, and he always stays in his room." He said, sighing. "Maybe you could talk to him. He always gets a little happier when you're home."

Sherlock snarled, going into the bedroom and very much wanting to slam the door closed. He knew that he should wait, that Mycroft could come in at any time, and that what he was doing was rather dumb, but he couldn't stop. To say that he got happier when the elder was here? The only reason would be that he got angry, and ended up cutting deeper. The feeling of euphoria, that all of the negativity was going out with the blood acutely more satisfying when he knew that it was a solution that couldn't leave him. What did Mycroft know about him? What did his parents know? What did _anyone_ know about William Sherlock Scott Holmes, other than his ridiculous name?

He pulled the box out, and looked for a bare piece of skin, long since having grown difficult. He found a place where the last cut had nearly healed, and drew it across, half way down his bicep, drawing deep crimson. It wasn't enough. He looked for more spots, slicing anything he could find, not stopping when he knew he should. Blood dripped down his fingers, onto the black towel he kept under his bed with his "kit". His ears were wringing, his head was light, but he didn't stop until he started seeing stars, colors dancing around, with his body feeling pleasantly numb, as well as his silent mind.

It had never been completely silent before. He'd been able to achieve muttering, whispering, slowing down, but never silence. He closed his eyes, loving the feeling, and promptly passed out.

When Mycroft found him, his stomach did a flip. His little brother was lying on his bed, a dangerous, but hopefully not lethal pool of blood around him, staining royal blue sheets. He ran to him, heart stopping until he felt the vague pulse of his brother's, and even still being caught in his throat. He grabbed the towel, and put it to the arm that seemed the most damaged, panicking.

"Mum! Dad! Hurry!" He shouted, grabbing the phone from the nightstand they shared when he was there and dialing 999.

"What is it- Oh God..." Their mother was the first in, going nearly as pale as her youngest when she saw him, and their father doing much the same.

He told the operator that his brother had attempted suicide and had multiple cuts and would need an ambulance, before telling his parents to go grab towels to apply pressure until it could arrive. He glanced around, looking for a note, or anything that would tell him why the hell his baby brother was lying half-dead with scars that ranged from nearly gone to the fresh cuts that refused to stop bleeding. He blinked away tears, figuring that he needed to see clearly to know if the bleeding stopped.

When sherlock woke, he had a pounding headache, and bright light was on the other side of his eyelids. He was in an unfamiliar bed, the sheets far to crisp and the smell of antiseptic stinging his nose. That combined with his having passed out from blood loss, and the feeling of a needle in his arm let him know before he opened is eyes that he was in the hospital. The first thing he saw when he did was Mycroft, eyes red and puffy, as if from crying, staring at the ceiling and muttering. His big brother, who had firmly told him that religion was made up for the manipulation and comfort of the masses, was praying. The man he'd never seen so much as frown in empathy had been crying. And it was all because of him. If he weren't so guilty, he'd have felt a sadistic sense of power that he could do these things, but as it stood, he just wanted to open more cuts in his skin, hopefully not waking up at all this time.

"I'm sorry, Myc." he muttered, his voice hoarse. He met blue-gray eyes only for a moment, before moving back down, shame preventing him from keeping them.

"Sorry, little brother? Sorry what? That you decided to slice yourself open and risk your life for God knows what reason, or sorry that we found you?" Mycroft tried to put venom into it, but it sounded like a child more than anything, lacking any strength or the anger he'd tried to convey.

"A little of both, really." Sherlock replied honestly, presuming that Mycroft had deduced the answer already. He had a habit of doing so, always better than the youngest Holmes.

"So then, are you stupid, or heartless?" Now the anger came in, fists clenching as he twirled their grandfather's wedding ring around his right ring finger.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean are you a big enough idiot that you thought dying wouldn't break our hearts, or did you simply not give a damn?" Mycroft wasn't one for cursing, but then again he wasn't one for crying, or praying, or being unable to control his emotions, either.

"I didn't want to die." So then they'd thought it a suicide attempt. Once more, he'd fooled his big brother. "I just cut too deep. I got carried away."

"It being accidental is supposed to comfort me then? How long?"

"Since you went off to Oxford."

"Why?" Now there was a question. He knew why he continued, because he became addicted to the feeling-but why had he chosen that as his mechanism? It seemed centuries ago, and he could barely remember.

"I heard about a kid at school doing it. People made fun of him, but he said that it made him feel numb. I thought that it would be better than doing drugs, or dying of lack of sleep. And then, I just couldn't stop."

"You will now, you realize." It wasn't a question. It was an order. And, for now, he chose not to argue.

"I suppose."

"I won't lose you. You're the youngest, Sherlock. You inherit all the wealth all of us ever accumulate, all the prestige, but on the other hand, you have to watch all of us die. Those are the rules. I'm not supposed to have to lose you. That's not how it works."

"I'm sorry." he breathed again, not knowing what else was supposed to be said. "Is Mum alright? And Dad?"

"They're in the cafeteria, drinking far too much coffee, while Mummy indulges in more sweets than her diabetes makes healthy. But we are in hospital should her blood sugar grow too high, so I supposed they're both fine."

"How close did I come?" like he said, he didn't want to die. Not just that he didn't mean to, he had the desire to live, at least currently, and the voice had momentarily gone from telling him that he was stupid, a freak, a looser who would die alone, to telling him that he was a dumb freak who nearly did. And it wasn't happy with him.

"If we'd not found you and stopped the bleeding, you would have died. We would have buried a 16 year old, Sherlock. You've the mind of a scientist, or a philosopher. England can't afford to waste minds like that.

"I'm sorry."


End file.
